


Only A Matter Of Time

by hae84 (muke_oops)



Series: Marvel drabbles [2]
Category: Avengers, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie) Spoilers, Gen, I promise the next thing I write will be happy and lovely, i may or may not have cried writing this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-25
Updated: 2015-05-25
Packaged: 2018-04-01 05:32:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4007740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/muke_oops/pseuds/hae84
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It had been two months, two weeks and fifteen days since the battle in Sokovia.</p><p>Clint was a mess.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Only A Matter Of Time

It had been two months, two weeks and fifteen days since the battle in Sokovia.  
  
For a little while there had been a glimmer of hope; a possibility that Pietro would live to see another day and live a life of freedom that he had never been able to experience before. But it could not be done, his wounds were to extensive for Dr. Cho to fix in the time available and Wanda, she had tried so hard. She had tried to will the lifeless body lying in a hospital bed back to life, she had tried to kickstart his brain by feeding him memories of her own, but to no avail. Three weeks Wanda had not left her brothers side. Three weeks of torturous hope ended right back where it had began. Pietro, lying stone cold dead. Energy Clint had once loathed now gone from the young boys body, and Clint had never wanted anything back more.

Clint was the reason for all of this. If he had just spotted the child in the first place, or if he had run behind the bus to start with Pietro would not have had to run into the fire of a machine gun to save Clint's sorry life. Clint could've done so much to save him. None of the if's and should've's will bring Pietro back now. 

After the battle Clint had tried to return to normality, he had returned back to his farmhouse paradise, his loving wife and innocent kids. But all he could see when he looked in their eyes was the last ones he had seen. Every time he would see the life drain out of Pietro's brilliant blue eyes, the glint of life lost in the dusty floor of a country now destroyed. Clint had nightmares too, replaying the last seconds of Pietro's life like groundhog day. Over and over Clint saw the speedster run towards the bullets. Saw the blood spill out onto the pavement too fast. Everything about that kid is...was...too fast. And now he was so still. Clint had nightmares about the others too. He started to see every one of his teammates die in action. The only recurring theme was that every death was preventable, but only if Clint was there. 

Just a month after Pietro's death Clint and Laura filed for divorce. Clint's paradise had turned into a hellish reminder of how much he would never fit into a normal life. How much he was needed by the others. How much he needed them. A thousand words sat in the heavy silence between Laura and Clint as they signed their names on the X, Clint couldn't allow the ending of another persons of life through his own, he had to let her go. He had to let them all go. 

Clint returned to the team. There was still a subdued silence hovering around the tower, a hesitation in every word in case something so simple as "can you pass me the tea?" would shatter the bubble of comfort that was being built piece by piece around the hole that Pietro left. Training was intense, all the anger and pain was released during training. Wanda was fierce, hell bent and dead inside, part of her missing now that Pietro was gone. It made her a terrifying opponent that no one was willing to compete with except Clint. Wanda and Clint fought until their knuckles bled and their back's ached, the only way for either of them to feel something, anything other than sorrow. It was a mutual understanding. The rest of the team were used to death and loss, so was Clint. But something had struck home with him, hit him harder than he had ever been hit before. He was just a shell of himself and everyone saw. 

Clint was a mess.  
  
He held a bottle of whiskey at all times, nursing it as if the glass itself was Pietro and it would shatter at any minute, like he had last time. Natasha had tried countless times to console him, but nothing would reach him.

On bad days he would lie in bed, consuming nothing but whiskey and staring up at the ceiling. Falling in and out of a drunken haze of sleep which just led to nightmares and Clint waking up even worse than before. Wanda had tried too, to try and get into Clint's head and make him see what he had become. But Clint knew what she was doing, as the first wisp of red had floated into Clint's mind he shut it down. He heard Wanda scream from her room, Clint winced at the pain he knew she had just gone though. But he felt numb and that was all he could focus on. On good days Clint would leave his room, shower and move to the common room. Whiskey in hand and maybe a sandwich in the other. He would sit there, any interaction was limited to one word replies or a grunt in response, he would spend the whole day like this. Just there, but not really _there._ Clint didn't notice what it was doing to Natasha, she could only watch as her best friend faded away. Watched the life drain out of him and all she could do was try not to let it happen to herself. She knew it was only a matter of time, but she kept that to herself. 

It had been another day. Another passing of time for Clint when a call came in, Fury's voice boomed through the speakers in Clint's room as a mission was read to the house. The first mission which would require him. He gulped back the last of his whiskey, the burn of the amber liquid not providing any more feeling. Just a numbness in his bones and heavy eyelids. He pulled on his suit, the purple leather felt tight and restrictive compared to the sloppy t-shirt and sweatpants he had lived in for the past month. He stumbled downstairs, pushing his weight against the wall to hold himself up, pausing for only a moment to fight the nausea he felt as one foot stomped after the other. He was counting down the seconds until he could curl back up into his sorrow again. 

* * *

Natasha thought it had been a graceful death. It was only a matter of time. Clint had been sloppy in the field that day, her all seeing companion barely noticing the live fire flying above their heads. She had tried to protect him, based him in an area further out- away from the centre of the battle but it had not been enough. Maybe it was because of Pietro he stuck his neck out for Natasha, maybe he wanted to die.  But most likely he just wasn't thinking straight. She knew the man was there, she knew he had a knife and was about to plunge it into her back, she knew exactly how to deal with it. Except she never had to. Instead she found Clint, bow in hand and knife in chest crumble to the ground. The masked man with an arrow between his eyes. Clint laid still on the frozen ground, the rest of the team battling away. Natasha studied Clint, too shocked to cry. It was the first time in a while she had seen Clint so peaceful. No more anxious twitching, grinding teeth and bloodshot eyes. He looked innocent and free, all the weight of his life finally lifted from his shoulders. Perhaps, for the first time since Pietro's death Clint was...okay.

Wanda had felt it, she had felt the spark of Clint's life extinguish, just as she had felt Pietro's. She rushed over and laid eyes on his lifeless body. She knelt next to him and sobbed into Natasha's shoulder. Tears ran down Natasha's own face as she tried to calm down the hysterical girl. 

"Wanda. Don't feel sorrow, look at him and you will see he is at peace. He is finally okay." 

Natasha said those words more to convince herself, but Wanda nodded. She choked back a sob but she knew Natasha was right. Clint had not really been living these past weeks. It was only a matter of time. 

* * *

 Clint groaned, a bright light burning the back of his eyes as he cracked them open. He tried to sit up, but a sharp pain in his chest told him that maybe that was not a good idea. He twisted his neck, trying desperately to see where he was. But all he could see was white. And Pietro. 

He could see Pietro. Why could he see Pietro? Last time he checked he was throwing himself under a knife. Oh. The chest. That's why it hurts. Pietro was sat so still next to Clint. He could see the rising and falling of his whole and unbloodied torso. Pietro's lips began to move. Clint squinted, no sound came from Pietro's lips and Clint couldn't focus on them enough to lip read. 

"Pietro". Clint's throat felt like gravel and the short name sent him into a coughing fit. His chest heaved, feeling like it was splitting open from the effort.

He heard the beeping of a monitor, the crinkle of starched sheets he was lying on and he heard Pietro's voice. 

"Clint. Stop. You will hurt yourself, lie back down." Pietro's voice brought tears to Clint's eyes, the voice he had heard in his nightmares so many times uttering that godawful catchphrase. The voice Clint would've given everything he had to hear again.  
That was when it clicked. Clint had given everything, he had given his life. Clint gasped, ignoring the pain ripple through his body. The pain? Should he be feeling anything? He was dead. Dead people don't feel. 

Clint reached out for Pietro, desperate to feel his skin, to feel him warm and alive. Pietro took Clint's hand, rubbing circles into it with his thumb. They sat like that for a little while, waiting for Clint to understand that Pietro was real. 

"I don-Can you...explain?" Clint coughed out, his voice unused to being called upon, seeing as _he was dead._

"I will explain later. But first I want you to see something. You have been dead for a week." 

Pietro whisked Clint away from the hospital bed (was it that? Clint still doesn't know) and took him to a small flat, Clint noticed the dissipation of white everywhere as the scene around him morphed into a city, he heard the noise of excited chatter and well, he heard life. What a concept.

Once in the flat Pietro laid Clint onto a small sofa and pulled a TV around so Clint could see it. An image of a small church appeared, then Clint saw the team. He saw Natasha as she moved up to the pulpit. She cleared her throat, she sounded so fragile. Clint's heart shattered. What followed was a funeral. Clint's funeral. Pietro held Clint's hand through the entire thing. Whispering comfort and slowly explaining to Clint just exactly how Clint was now where he was. 

It had been two months, three weeks and fifteen days since the battle of Sokovia. And Clint was finally okay.

**Author's Note:**

> Just a heads up that obviously this is my version of heaven, or how I would like it to exist. If you don't agree with my version for whatever reason I can only apologise and just picture Clint and Pietro happily in your own version of heaven/afterlife.
> 
> Say Hi on [Tumblr](http://lukemgmt.tumblr.com) :-)
> 
> ((I hope u guys *enjoyed* this or as much as one can enjoy Clint dying but in this au I hope you agree with me it was better off this way? Kudos and comments greatly appreciated as always))


End file.
